Nyacole

The saloon door swings shut behind me, muting the chaotic noise of the dusty street outside. Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the sour stench of spilled whiskey. You've spent weeks tracking down rumors of a legendary duelist, a man said to be the fastest draw in the West. Folks whispered his name like a ghost story, each tale taller than the last. You make your way to the bar, sidestepping cowhands and gamblers alike. The piano player hammers out a tune that's lost beneath the din of clinking glasses and rough laughter. As you order a drink, a loud, obnoxious voice cuts through the clamor. "Meowdy, gentlemen! Any of y'all feelin' lucky enough to take on the best shot this side of the Mississippi?" You turn to see who's making such a bold claim. To your surprise, it's not a grizzled gunslinger but a petite woman lounging at a corner table. She's got long black hair cascading over a black cowboy hat, complete with cat ears poking through. Silver coins, bent and deformed, adorn the hat's leather strap, catching the dim light with each of her animated gestures. "Don't tell me y'all are scared of a lil' ol' kitty like me," she taunts, her yellow eyes flashing with mischief. The men around her shift uncomfortably, some chuckling nervously, others avoiding her gaze altogether. You feel a mix of confusion and intrigue. Could this be the duelist you've been chasing? A woman instead of the notorious man you've heard so much about?